Fran Forman at Afterimage

Fran Forman’s work has been shown in places as diverse as Paris, Shanghai, New York and her native Massachusetts. Her exhibition at Afterimage Gallery demonstrates why she has drawn international attention. Forman has a formidable bag of technological tricks, and she deploys her talent for manipulating vintage and new images in ways more nuanced than is customary.

Oftentimes, technique, usually the ubiquitous Photoshop tool, thunderously steals the show while art takes a back seat to keyboard virtuosity. Forman is an exception. Her images invoke dreamlike imagery, swapped chronology and specifics that include water, wings, casements, architecture, sky, landscape and costume.

Boy and a Knight is a case in point. It’s reminiscent of the lavish elements of a child’s book of Arthurian legends. It features a boy in clothing of the early 1900s; he stares placidly into an undisclosed vista while a knight on horseback, sporting a jousting lance and black-and-white kit, moves behind him.

The various elements are deftly insinuated into a dreamy landscape that creates a narrative begging to be unraveled. One interpretation, among many, is that the knight is a character from a book the boy has been reading. His imaginative life circles his literal presence. Consequently, Forman shows us how our psyches operate while simultaneously making us privy to a bygone world. Sky, grass and figures dreamily meet in a well-contrived high-tech interlude.

Two Portraits is a mashup of Renaissance painting meets iPhone, in a glorious abundance of gold, orange and black. A woman sports both period jewelry and an ear bud — brilliant. A brightly colored bird perches on an ornate frame, and its twin image appears on the screen of the cellphone. Roman numerals look as if they’re embossed above the portrait — MMXI or 2011, the date the work was created. A building shot in the Spanish town of Seville peeks out from the background, creating a confluence of nature, architecture, regalia and perhaps a tweeted message.

William Cannings at Chris Worley Fine Arts

Inflating metal until it billows and morphs into interesting shapes seems like a worthwhile excursion into materials and processes — and it is. However, William Cannings’ show at Chris Worley Fine Arts, “Soft Cell,” seems to offer more void than substance.

Of course, that’s the idea — encasing the invisible stuff we inhale with solid material. But there’s no there there. Not because of the materials in question but because of the less-than-august shapes to be contemplated.

If you name an artwork Ziggurat, it would be wise to provide some semblance of gravitas. Instead, the piece looks as though it’s made of children’s pool-float toys. What the colorful doughnut shapes have to do with temples (ziggurats) for Sumerians, Assyrians or any other civilization is elusive. It’s merely a semideflated pile of steel masquerading as air and plastic.

Moreover, the configuration isn’t upward and vertical. It’s as if the shape is made of consistently dwindling floaties that are then upturned. In other words, the “ziggurat” in question has been toppled. If that is meant to be shocking, it’s not. It seems accidental and incidental. Moreover, the bright colors lend no gravitas to the project.

Burst Cloud is only slightly more interesting. Unlike all the other pieces, which are made of steel, this is aluminum. It’s puffed and torn. There’s something a little more engaging about the riff of a split. We can see the coated inside of the piece and that’s somewhat enchanting — but just somewhat. It’s not a ferocious tear or a horrific blowout. It’s just a curved bit of metal, split like a pita and pinned to a wall. It does not evoke pity, fear or interest. It’s approximately as disquieting — and enlightening — as gazing at a sofa cushion.

Marcus Jansen at Galleri Urbane

It’s both ironic and fitting that Marcus Jansen used exterior house paint to create the paintings for his show, “Frontline Report.” He takes material purchased from hardware stores and works it through and through until he “flips it” it into the stuff of wickedly strange interiors. Jansen’s work has been branded apocalyptic, and that’s understandable; he uses paint for picket fences and siding and deploys it to build blasted rooms that are weighted and worn.

If you’re looking for a feel-good moment at the end of the year, this may not be your cup of tea; however, you’d be missing some of the best art Dallas has seen in months.

Dog House is smeared and reminiscent of ashes and dirty workbenches. It also resonates with a brand of despair that’s so eerily drab it becomes mesmerizing. A singular vertical band of aqua becomes a buoy around which the entire piece circulates; it’s akin to a slice of sky, a single and remarkable bit of swimming pool blue. A spotted dog nuzzling a partially deflated balloon emerges as the work’s focal point. However, your eye quickly darts to a ragged red stool and a teddy bear with a bright vest.

Jansen makes sure you travel the entire room and experience the whole loaded space. It’s no easy chore, but it’s more than worth the effort. It’s a world the artist literally rubbed with rags until it burned with the allure of a fading coal.

Another work, Over the Border, is a collection of rabbits with targets on their sides. They appear to be in an arcade formation as they leap over a blue ravine with a discarded tire floating in it. The muted and faded creatures seem to be fodder for gunfire, and the whole dismal affair ushers you into a grim and surreal landscape. Even the sun is blunted by a crisscross of vectors that dampen its light.

Jansen is a veteran of the 1991 Persian Gulf War. He says that what he experienced in Iraq may be partially responsible for what he deftly puts on canvas. No matter what the origin, it remains a moving excursion into a discomfiting world.

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